A Very Holmes Christmas- Chapter 1
by ClairetheCatt
Summary: Twelve days, twelve chapters, twelve gifts from older brothers. Each day will bring a new surprise, it's time for Sherlock to open his eyes! Will all end fair, or will there be despair? Read on and follow along for more of this amazing song! :) Join eight-year-old Sherlock on his fight against his two older brothers, Mycroft and Sherrinford!
1. Chapter 1

**** AN****: Hello! This is my first fanfiction, so please go easy on me when giving feedback, although I do encourage you to give me suggestions and correct me if you see an error! This is based on the BBC version of Sherlock, also known as the BEST modern adaptation of Sherlock! **** As it says in the summary, there will be twelve of these little chapters, and I'll make them as long as I can! Sorry if they do come out a bit short, I'm trying my best! Anyways, enough chatter, enjoy! ****

Date: December 1st

Time: 6:00 AM

THE PURPLE PROBLEM

_On the first day of Christmas my brothers gave to me, a purple shirt in the laundry…_

"Sherlock! Come get your laundry, dear!" Mrs. Holmes shouted from the laundry room. "Coming, mother!" Sherlock replied as he jumped from his bed and ran downstairs. His feet stomped on the wooden floor as he made his way to his mother. "Ah, good. Your laundry is over there, Sherlock. There's your sweaters, pants, socks, undies..." Mrs. Holmes started before Sherlock interrupted. "Yes, mother, I'll find out when I go through them," he said abruptly as he picked up the clothes and left the room. "I've really got to teach that child some manners," Mrs. Holmes muttered as she continued to fold the laundry.

Sherlock ran back up the stairs and placed his clothes on his messy bed. Most of his school papers were scattered on his bedroom floor beside his giant piles of dirty laundry. Sherlock threw the clothes on the floor as he searched for his school uniform. Shirt after pants after sock after sweater, Sherlock looked and looked for his button-up shirt. At last, he came to the last shirt, and he sighed heavily. There lay a bright purple shirt, folded neatly. "Mother put her shirt in my laundry pile again," Sherlock grumbled as he picked up the purple garment and made his way back to the laundry room. "Mother, you've put your shirt in my pile of clothes again," Sherlock said unhappily as his mother turned to him. "Oh no, dear. That's your shirt. See, I must have put it in the wrong batch, because when it came out of the machine, it was purple! I'm sorry dear, I truly am," Mrs. Holmes said, as Sherlock became a very distinct shade of pink. "Mum! How could you?! I can't go to school in this! I'll be humiliated!" Sherlock shouted as Mrs. Holmes stumbled back. "Now Sherlock, I promise I'll buy you a new one once they are available. But you know that Francisco doesn't make any button-up shirts during this time of year! He only makes wool sweaters for the cold weather," Mrs. Holmes said firmly. Francisco was the Holmes' tailor who made all their clothes. He never was able to make school uniforms during winter because of the scarce supplies.

This news seemed to anger Sherlock even more. "Then let me borrow one of Mycroft's!" He shouted, louder this time. Mrs. Holmes frowned and replied, "Now, Sherlock, there is no need to yell. And you know how Mycroft's feels about sharing his clothes with others." Sherlock winced and walked out of the room, dragging the purple shirt behind him. He ran back up the stairs and slammed his door shut. He miserably pulled on the shirt along with his normal school pants. As he turned to the mirror, his face made a horrible grimace. There stood a little boy, about eight years old, wearing a bright purple shirt tucked into black pants. Sherlock groaned and opened his room's door. Mycroft was walking down the stairs in his perfectly white button-up shirt. Jealous and filled with rage, Sherlock ran behind Mycroft and gave him a push. The older sibling fell forwards, catching himself just in time before slamming onto the hard wooden flooring.

"What was that for?" Mycroft said as he stood up and brushed himself off. Sherlock gave him the death stare. "I know it was you who put my shirt in the wrong washing machine. I know it was you who did this!" He said, pointing at his purple shirt. Mycroft let out a laugh that angered Sherlock even more. "Oh, Sherlock. You're so predictable," Mycroft said as he turned to the kitchen and happily walked to get a slice of cake.

After breakfast, Sherlock put on his father's long trench coat, desperately trying to hide his embarrassing shirt. Mycroft chuckled at him before leaving the house, his stainless white shirt mocking him. Sherrinford, the eldest of the three brothers, walked right past him without a word. Sherlock could have sworn he had seen him grinning.

When they arrived at school, Sherlock was greeted by an abundance of laughs. The whole school was practically rolling on the floor laughing at his ridiculous purple shirt. His only friend, Simon, did not want the attention, so he promptly ditched him for his brother Mycroft. And so Sherlock spent the day alone, humiliated by his classmates and teacher.

When Sherlock came home, he ran to his room and locked himself in. He threw off his shirt and covered himself in his bed sheets. The whole day Sherlock lay in his bed, procrastinating his homework and chores. He could hear Mycroft and Sherrinford giggling outside his door. Sherlock simply ignored them as he began to draft a revenge plan for his brothers. This was the last straw.


	2. Chapter 2

Date: December 2nd

Time: 3:00 PM

THE DEERSTALKER HAT

On the second day of Christmas my brothers gave to me, a deerstalker hat, and a purple shirt in the laundry.

Sherlock sat at his desk, pencil in hand, his plan staring straight back at him. His head whirled with magnificently evil ideas for his brothers. They were going to pay for his purple shirt, and Sherlock had a better idea than money. Ever since school that day, no one had heard from him. He had stayed in his room, quiet as a mouse, not even coming out for his usual after school snack. Mycroft, of course, had found out that he was planning something, but hadn't had the time to look around for what it was. All day he pressed his ear to Sherlock's door, waiting for the slightest sound. But, at the end of the day, Mycroft left the hallway disappointed, having wasted two previous hours of his life.

Sherlock's mother started to worry when he hadn't come down for dinner. "He's just going through a phase, darling," said Mr. Holmes, reassuring his nervous wife. Mrs. Holmes, on the other hand, wasn't so satisfied. "But he hasn't eaten since lunch!" She protested, crossing her arms at the dinner table. "Breakfast, actually. I saw him throwing his lunch in the garbage," Mycroft corrected, stuffing a piece of bread in his mouth. Mrs. Holmes gasped. "He didn't eat my mashed potatoes? But he LOVES mashed potatoes!" She raised her voice, standing up and knocking over her chair. Sherrinford laughed as the thick, wooden chair made a "clunk!" sound on the parquet. Mrs. Holmes flushed with anger.

"SHERLOCK HOLMES! YOU WILL COME DOWN THIS INSTANT, MISTER! OR ELSE!" Mrs. Holmes boomed as the three boys' eyes widened. Mr. Holmes lowered in his seat and Sherrinford's smile quickly faded away. Mycroft stayed neutral, placing another piece of bread in his mouth.

Upstairs, Sherlock had plugged his ears and was now writing furiously on his paper. His plan was filled with scribbles and corrections. As he began to write down "step 5", Mrs. Holmes swung the door open. "Sherlock!" She screeched. Sherlock spun around his chair, staring at his now panting mother. "Mum? What happened?" He said awkwardly, pulling out his earplugs. Mrs. Holmes gave a sigh of relief. "Dear God, Sherlock! I thought you'd become deaf! I told you to come down for dinner!" She said, slightly quieter this time, but her voice could still be heard through the house. Sherlock shook his head. "I'm not hungry," he said as he turned back around to finish the "5". Mrs. Holmes' expression switched from relief to worry. "Sherlock, dear, I'd like you to come down. You haven't eaten all day. Look, tomorrow is Friday, and I promise I'll let you stay in your room then. But now I would like you to spend some quality time with your family!" She argued as she started to approach her son. Sherlock kept writing, not stopping to answer. Mrs. Holmes grabbed her son's arm, stopping him from scribbling more on his paper. He looked up at her and squinted. He saw in her eyes that she felt hurt and betrayed. So, like any good boy would, Sherlock agreed to meet downstairs. Mrs. Holmes smiled and left him to wash up before watching him walk down the stairs.

"There's my boy!" Mr. Holmes said as Sherlock sat in his chair, avoiding Mycroft and Sherrinford's gaze. They snickered at each other as Sherlock began to eat his food. Halfway through dinner, Mycroft left the table to his room. Two minutes later, he returned with a big brown box.

"What's that, Mycroft?" Mrs. Holmes asked as she curiously looked at the box. Mycroft grinned as he started to explain. "This," he said, "is a present for Sherlock." A long pause follows his response. "I felt bad about what happened to Sherlock's shirt, so Sherrinford and I agreed to chip in to buy him an early Christmas gift," he explained, handing the box to Sherlock. Sherlock avoided his brothers' eyes and snatched the box away. Hoping for the toy car he had been wanting all year, Sherlock tore off the box cover and reached inside. The car felt oddly fluffy, and seemed a little too floppy to be a model car. As he pulled out the gift, his parents gasped. "Oh, Mycroft, it's wonderful!" They said happily as they watched Sherlock for his reaction. Sherlock jaw dropped. He held a dark blue deerstalker hat with white accents on it. His two brothers struggled to keep a straight face as their father insisted on Sherlock putting on the hat. Grimacing, Sherlock pulled on the hat. His parents clapped and his brothers laughed. Flustered, Sherlock ran up to his room as his mother called, "But you look adorable, dear!" Sherlock went back to his plan, writing down every single horrible thought that passed through his mind. This was the end of Mycroft's happiness.


End file.
